


Apathy

by highfunctioning_homosapien



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, POV Sherlock Holmes, sherlock is a little on the crazy side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highfunctioning_homosapien/pseuds/highfunctioning_homosapien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short drabble I wrote from Sherlock's point of view. Set some time before the series, I'm guessing probably whilst he was at Uni, or perhaps afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apathy

**Author's Note:**

> This is partly written from my own point of view and experiences. I'm unsure as to whether I internalize parts of characters into my own psyche, or whether I externalise parts of myself onto them, so I apologize if this seems at all OOC. Also this is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own, exhaustion addled fault.
> 
> Slight trigger warning for drug use, depression, self harm, and general not-quite-sane-mentality, but what can you expect from Sherlock, really?

My head is whirring, a ball of thoughts and feelings, of nothingness and everything, all crammed into and empty cavern. I feel like I'm going to explode and implode at the same time; it's a paradoxical hell. I roar with frustration as I pull at my hair, willing for it to stop, just once, just for an hour, a day, anything. But it doesn't, it never does. It dulls down sometimes. A dull murmur or hum that I can ignore, like a fly in the corner of the room... But then it comes back. Angrier and more violent than before. It fills me with a feeling of apathy towards everything that removes all meaning. It's a parasite and it's winning- there's nothing I can do to stop it but...

I can't. Not again.

It's been three months, one week and four days. I don't remember to the minute as the last hit was in a dank alley somewhere in Whitechapel. Not my finest moment, but we must do what we must to stay alive, apparently. Not that living has much to offer at the moment, but here I am. A coward. Or perhaps a secret optimist. I'm not sure which I'd like to be least.

I keep thinking back to that day, three-months-one-week-and-four-days ago. I hate Mycroft for trying to help, and for not helping enough. I hate the world for being so... Callous. I laugh in the face of the devout; if only they could spend but an hour in my mind. I doubt their lack of brain cells would be able to handle it. I am blessed with my mind as much as it is a curse. It's not often I long to be one of the masses- a pawn in the giant game of chess the authorities play. Just a faceless number in a crowd, but today is one of those days that I do.

I end up pacing. It keeps my legs busy at least. Stops me from tearing them to pieces. I only wish I could say the same for my mind, which is slowly disintegrating into some sort of civil war, though there doesn't seem to be decisive sides, so no-one is winning. Especially not me. I start to think of ridiculous, irrelevant things. Like how much pacing it would take to wear down the carpet, or whether it's worth going to get scissors to remove the loose threads that have been bothering me for some time. I envision the rational part of my brain is clubbing the thoughts to some sort of equivalent to death. If I could feel pity, I would pity the what rational portion is left. I gave up caring whether it survives or not a long time ago, like I gave up caring about anything or anyone else, including myself. It's probably why I no-longer get irritated by those who call me arrogant or narcissistic. If only they could see how much I really hate myself. Actually no, I'm glad they don't. Arrogance is my defence mechanism against the stupid. All those stupid little ants out there. The thought of the billions of ignorant scum that populate this planet make me nauseous, which reminds me of how little I've eaten today. I vaguely think about pacing over to the fridge, but then again, it seems easier to carry on going in a circle. The view stays the same. Window (dirty), bookcase (I should read _I can't concentrate_ damn it all to hell), look back to the carpet, don't trip over _of course I won't trip over,_ then to the wall (boring), the mirror (revolting).

The clock is too loud, I decide. I take it off the wall and throw it to the ground. I hear the tiny whirring parts within it become dislodged and rattle around, as the plastic casing splits. That was definitely too loud. I regret throwing it and wince at the sharp noise. I could clean it up, but then again, I could murder someone, and I'm unlikely to do that, so why bother? I'm sure I'm not making logical sense, but I am definitely making logical sense. I'm always making logical sense. Logic is my playing field, my senses are my weapons, my brain is the ammunition. But what's the use in the military if there's no war to fight? I snort at that thought. Oh how Mycroft would love to disagree with me.

A war seems appealing right now. Loud noises that deafen you, smoke that stings your eyes, the dream of victory and the promise of death. How simple life would be, to be a soldier. I almost envy them. Almost. But not quite. Envy would take too much effort. I've destroyed envy. Or tried to. Envy is all consuming and rips you apart from the inside. The only envy I can stomach is the envy of other people. The sheep are jealous of the goats as they climb the mountain to seek fresh pastures, as the lion watches on from the rocks, ready to pounce and claim his prize. No. Envy isn't something I need. Isn't something anyone really needs. It's another pointless emotion like regret, or affection, or love. They all bring you down. Down to their level, down towards the complicated pandemonium of messy feelings and humans and actions and deceit and lies and "SHUT UP, _SHUT UP!_ "

I think I've said that out loud. I think I've probably shouted loud enough for Mycroft's bugs to hear me. I think it's probably the last time I'll be seeing this appartment. I don't care. I look around the dingy one-roomed space and feel... Nothing. I feel nothing for any of it. And I patiently wait for his men to come. To cart me away. To fill me full of drugs that aren't the ones I need and to be examined by men who aren't as clever as I. He expects a fight, but I won't give him one. This time, it's not because I don't want him to feel satisfaction. This time it's real. I. Just. Don't. Care.


End file.
